The Duncan Eater

When I was a youngun, up in Canada, my uncle Albert, who was 9 years older than me lived with us after my grandmother died. He used to tease me mercilessly with tales of "The Duncan Eater," a sort of boogie-man. I'm not sure what exactly the Duncan Eater was supposed to be, and it was just today that it occurred to me that he may have been saying something else entirely. Anyway,this story was written for a class where we were supposed to base a story on our earliest memory. This thinkg just kind of flowed and, while it's not at all like the type of stories I normally write, I kind of dig it.

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It is the color of daisies—the middle part—that yellow. But softer. I see it as I float down, downward. A recession, maybe, is a better word; though in the Army’s Officer Candidate School, they called it retrograde. Retreat. Whatever. It was moving backwards. It was a bright light I was moving back from. The yellow is really in my peripheral vision, both eyes working now/again.

I drop further until I am surrounded by the bars. Wooden. White. No doubt of lead paint. They could do that then/now. You went blind if you ate the paint chips. The bars of painted pine feel more assuring, though, than the ones of bamboo, and I feel a sense of gratitude. There is not an Army word for gratitude. When you are grateful, it’s all about God, the Universe, the Great Thankful Unknown.

It’s a prison of sorts. One I’m ill-equipped to escape. I’m ill. Not equipped. I’ve escaped. I’ve escaped the bamboo one and returned here to the white pine.
There is a mattress beneath my back. It’s uncomfortable. It’s not a straw tick. I don’t care. It’s not got ticks or fleas. That’s good. It seems. It seems it should be good. I can’t remember why.

I can see him there, off to my left. He floats too. His golden sardonic face. Eyes like X’s, like a cartoon guy that’s been knocked unconscious or killed. Shirt! I’ve had X’s for eyes. Shirt? Is that the word? Shid? I try it on my tongue, but it doesn’t play. I talk to him. He’s got a name and I know the name. The Duncan Eater. I know this because my dead uncle told me/will tell me in a few years, will in fact terrify me with the documentary-like detail of how the Duncan Eater lives under my bed, and there in the flashlight glow on the wall, and in the cellar with the toads. Then my uncle will die. I want to tell him that, but I know he is only nine now. He won’t understand. Won’t know the Duncan Eater seeks him as well.

The Duncan Eater’s not floating. He’s sitting on something, a chair maybe. A desk? A nightstand. The walls. It’s the walls that are yellow. Not the Duncan Eater. I don’t fear him anymore/yet. He can’t hurt me now. There can be no more beatings. No more torture. Can’t take my eye again, can’t use the bamboo sliver to steal it. I was the last one. We’re all safe now. I guess. Safe in the arms of Jesus for some. The endless void for others, hurtling through space as a zillion tiny atoms. Maybe a few, like me, get sent back, to do it again, to start over. I’m back here again.

I hear the murmur from somewhere in the house. They are coming. There is the hand on the doorknob. It’s there. I hear the clack, as the hand touches it, making that little rectangular metal rod that runs from crystal knob to crystal knob teeter in its socket. What in God’s name is that smell?! Is it me? Have I shadded my pants? Shipped? Shit? That’s the word. I remember. I don’t want to. Not me. Not me. Him. It’s him and his poopy-stink of grave-breath death-rot.

I hear the murmur from somewhere in the house. They moved us here when the Americans got close. Reports said it was the 25th Infantry grunts and a regiment of ARVN for support. Moved us to an estate house with bamboo cages in a basement that flooded. I look at the Duncan Eater sitting on the shelf or the dresser or the ‘whatever’ and the murmur of voices becomes clearer. “You gonna die, G.I.” is what the Duncan Eater says.

I hear the murmur from somewhere in the house and I hear the clack as the hand touches the knob. I turn my head expectantly for Mummy. I can’t help it. A nipple brushed across a baby’s cheek brings a turning reaction as it seeks milk. Seeks its Mum its Mama its Mamamam. It’s the sound the baby makes as it nurses, its gums working the teat. Mamamamamammm. I know this now/will know this when I am an old, old, toothless man. Even in my VFW cap, chairbound and wrapped in a blanket, waiving my tiny flag, I will know this and will turn my cheek toward sustenance.

When they put us in the house there was a woman there. We all called her… we all… all. By “all” I mean the four of us left then. The rest, the other seventy-six, died. Killed. Murdered. Making the Ultimate Sacrifice, they were, ultimately, sacrificed. We had no information left to give. We were tortured for spite.

We called her “Suki the Saigon Slut.” Old Chas Cong would send her in to fut with our heads. Fut. Fup. Fupped. What is the word again? They tied us… bound us… yes… to a length of bamboo – across our back. Our arms hooked over that and our wrists bound in front. Suki stripped down and she danced in front of us. She’d stick her mams in our face. Her mams. Her…. Ta-taas… her… she’d brush her nipples across our cheeks, pulling away at the last moment. Teasing us. Our faces turned. We sought our Mums. She’d…

I hear the murmur from somewhere in the house and I hear the clack as the hand touches the knob. I turn my head expectantly for Mummy. I see the pretty doorknob, its faceted glass that catches the light. I just noticed that the yellow is the paint on the walls in this room and that… that’s all. I just noticed. Clickety-click like the cocking of Colonel Khúc’s service revolver. He did it slowly like that. And the doorknob revolves with that sound and Mummy opens the door.

I look up from my crib. I’m how old? I don’t know… eighteen months? I can’t tell, because I’m a baby. I don’t have a grasp on temporal issues. I don’t even think I’ve grasped object-permanence yet. No, I must know that. Just because one can no longer see an object doesn’t mean it is not there. I know.

I know she’s come in because I can hear her. She’s talking to another Mummy.
“Is he awake?” the other asks. She’s got a British accent. It’s Gram.
“I’m not sure,” says Mummy. Their heads appear over the top of my crib. “He’s starting to wake,” she says. “Hi, Rickey.”

They’ve snuck in and they look straight down at me smiling. Behind Gram stands the Duncan Eater and I know now how old I am. Or close. I know I’m less than two. Gram dies when I’m two. The Duncan Eater is there for her, not me. I hold out my hands. I want to tell her that it’s not so bad. You can go back and start it all again, if that’s what you believe. I want to tell her. I hold out my arms. But Mummy and Gram move back away. They are receding. They are engaged in retrograde. We never retreat. Retreat is for the weak. I hear the murmur from somewhere in the house and I hear the clack as the hand touches the knob.

I hear the clickety-click like the turning of the pretty glass doorknobs in that funny-smelling yellow room in that little town. I hear the clickety-click as Colonel Khúc cocks his pistol again and the cylinder rotates. I am kneeling, facing him, a dirt pit to my back. My torso is numb – I don’t feel the bamboo strapped to my arms any more. I’m twenty-two months/years old. What in God’s name is that smell?! Sulfur? Saltpeter? Gunsmoke. There were four of us kneeling. Now my ears ring and I’m the only one left. The others quietly cuddle in the pit behind me. Blue smoke wafts from Colonel Khúc’s service revolver like a tiny dancing specter.

I hear a firefight. Under a klick from here. 16’s and 60’s laying it on thick, pounding the bush. AK’s responding less and less. 5th Cav Huey blades thocking nearer. And an A-1 Skyraider. I hear an A-1. Open your mouth, Rickey! Here comes the airplane! Someone has called in a napalm strike. They’re going to flambé Mr. Charles Cong.

Colonel Khúc. Ras. Apollyon. Shiva. The Destroyer. The Duncan Eater. He is pointing the revolver at me. My only eye sees what it sees. It sees the A-1 clear the treeline and the drum released, tumbling end over end towards us. And too, it sees each bead of sweat on Colonel Khúc’s upper lip as he jerks the trigger. The cylinder revolves. Turns. Wheel of Life, Wheel of Death. Lead nipple brushes my cheek. My face turns. Mummy! Cylinder revolves. Turns. Wasp sting. The bullet-wasp burrows in above my dead right eye, laying eggs so that its young may feed. The napalm drum hits the ground and ignites and as I fall back into the pit I see the yellow of its flame. It is the color of daisies — the middle part — that yellow. But softer. I see it as I float down, downward.

©2007 Rick Raab-Faber